


side-effects

by thefudge



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Desk Sex, Drug Use, F/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, a dash of dubcon, and some rune shenanigans, because of drug use mostly, half a daddy kink if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 16:04:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9769610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Beyond the embarrassing, all-consuming need for yin-fen, there is another pressing need that calls to her and makes her blood sing worse than a fever.





	

**Author's Note:**

> yes, this is exactly what you think it is. no, i'm not sorry.

 

There are some side-effects that the medical books and Magnus Bane didn’t tell her about.

Yes, Isabelle is lucid enough to know this has gone beyond the realms of decency. She is lurking in the corners at night, prowling around vampire dens, praying they will bite her and end her agony. If her mother could see her now she would be absolutely horrified. Hell, if a lucid Isabelle could see her now, she’d be shocked and disgusted.

But self-reflection, while enjoyable for the most part (she looks great in her mirror), has never been one of her strong suits.

She is a Shadowhunter and it seems the shadow has impaired her vision and has prevented others from looking inside.

The problem is, this shadow can’t sate the hunger.

Beyond the embarrassing, all-consuming need for yin-fen, there is another pressing need that calls to her and makes her blood sing worse than a fever.

She can’t tell anyone that she’s wasting away inside, not even her brother who would be so truly disappointed if he ever found out.

No, she has to go straight to the source.

 

 

“I – I need –” she struggles in shame, because Isabelle Lightwood, for all her dazzling smiles and infectious charm, has never needed anyone and anything in her life.

Victor rises from his chair with relish, paperwork forgotten. “It’s all right, Isabelle. I understand.”

“You _do_?”

She’s so relieved, she momentarily forgets that he is the cause for all her troubles.

Aldertree moves like a cat, a tame feline that has been dressed up in beautiful suits and ties but whose rapacious nature has remained unfettered, after all. This is the secret to any kind of grace; let the animal roam free in your expensive wardrobe. You can take the Shadowhunter out of the fray, but you can’t – well, you know how the saying goes.

He’s faced violent urges before. He seems to have mastered them all, and yet, the sight of a dizzy, hungry, spellbound Isabelle Lightwood goes a long way to unmaster him.

He can’t deny her beauty, it's almost quotidian. But her outward charm does not interest him as much as this vibrant, starlike quality inside her. She shines so brightly for everyone else, she gives so much of herself and asks for nothing in return.

So when she asks _him_ – oh, yes, it is a delight.

Truly, he hadn’t predicted this. He gave her the drug as a way to keep her under his toe. He’d done worse things to better people.

But no one has responded to yin-fen quite like her.

When he reaches her, she claws at his vest with manic excitement. “I’m not here for a refill, I just need you to activate –”

“I know, I know, darling,” he whispers, placing his warm fingers over her cold hands. He takes out his stele slowly, almost teasingly. As if to say, “I could refuse you, and that would kill you”.

Isabelle’s eyes follow his movements with aching precision. She misses nothing. God, how bright and dark those eyes glow. He stifles a chuckle.

He knows the rune she wants activated. It is quite against the rules. For that particular mark is only kindled in certain marriage bonds, flesh rituals and Bacchanalias of the highest order. It renders the Shadowhunter infinitely vulnerable. It enacts ecstasy and disorder. She should know better than this.

But as he traces the stele against her soft skin, he marvels at the fact that, bold and experienced as Isabelle might be, she is innocent and untried in this regard. She has never had this rune lit inside her, she has never felt its flame.

He smiles a benevolent, avuncular smile as he sets her entire soul on fire.

 

 

Isabelle screams, but it is not a scream. It is a conglomeration of sounds originating deep in her belly. Like smoke, it takes an almost human shape, a wild brute with claws for eyes. She claws at her own eyes.

Victor pries her palms open.

“Careful, darling… you are too sharp for your own good.”

She wants to quaff on the elixir of flesh and blood. She wants to be a vampire and a werewolf and a warlock and a fey and everything in between. She wants to sprout wings like a demon or an angel. The difference hardly matters now. She takes hold of his tie and brings his face close to hers.

“What – what happens now?”

Aldertree snakes a hand around her waist and brings her closer. His expensive Swiss watch digs into her back. He’s a man of detail.

“Now you surrender, of course.”

 

 

But surrender is impossible for Shadowhunters. Never lose a fight. And if you do, don’t come back home, don’t face your betters. Slink away in shame. Try to bury your defeat.

“Oh, no,” he intones sweetly in her ear, “surrender is the best part, you’ll find.”

She is unceremoniously thrust up against his desk. There is a sickening thud, a final warning as an ashtray falls to the floor.

_Let him spread you, and you're done._

She does.

Papers scatter like feathers in her wake but he doesn’t seem to mind. She latches onto his tie and pulls him down towards her as he splays her on top of his most important treaties and documents.  His deft fingers pull up her thighs until he has her pinned against him.

Isabelle can feel the shape of his hardness against her and she groans in expectation. She is swimming in her own desire. Her mouth is so close to his, and she’s almost strangling him with his tie. Victor laughs, a deep rumble in his throat, as their lips touch and fall apart.

Sweet, lovely Izzy teases him with her tongue and he responds in due fashion,  kissing her softly at first before demanding that she open her mouth wider and wider so that his tongue can caress the roof of her mouth and make her fall to pieces. He sinks a hand into her Medusa hair, coiling snakes darkening his knuckles, and he tugs back hard. She gasps, unable to keep herself shut, and he assaults her mouth further. His other hand reaches swiftly between her skirted legs. She is wearing very inappropriate underwear for this meeting, he notes with a smirk.

When he finds her sweet spot, Isabelle mewls, almost in protest, but she tilts her head back and lets him play her like a fiddle. He latches onto the throbbing vein at her throat where the rune shines bright and innocent, and he continues his ministrations. He is not a vampire, but she feels as if he’s drinking her. 

He slides her underwear to her knees. Isabelle shudders. She’s soaking up his documents.

“Naughty little Shadowhunter, look at what you've done."

Isabelle feels his words like the lashes of her whip. The deep timbre of his voice sets something in motion inside her. She rubs herself against him almost unconsciously.

He shakes his head with faux-sternness. "When will you learn?”

Her thighs cling to his waist.

“Please…Victor,” she begs, her nails scratching desperately at his neck.

“Is that any way to address a Clave representative?” he teases, moving a finger inside her slowly.

“Aaah...I meant, Sir…Mr. Aldertree…”

"That's better. What do you need, Isabelle?” he asks cordially, almost as if she’s not spread out on his desk and he's not fucking her with his hand. As if this were a regular meeting.

“I need – I need - ”

It has always been difficult for her to express something so simple. She used to scold Alec for always being so damn self-sufficient.

“You need to ask for what you want, big brother,” she’d tell him often with a wide, confident smile.

But look at her now.

“I need you to…”

“Yes?” he asks, his finger pausing inside her, his thumb ghosting over her clit. Her body is seized with little jerks. 

“You know…” she begs against his teeth.

Aldertree kisses the corner of her mouth. “How could I? When you won’t tell me.”

"I can't..."

He releases her entirely. He moves away and leaves behind him a cruel and icy draft.

Isabelle lies on the desk in shock as he fixes his tie and walks towards the fireplace, perfectly composed.

“No!” she moans angrily. “No, please!”

She can't believe he's going to leave her like that. She conjures her whip out of thin air, the anger and frustration too great to restrain herself.

But he’s fast, almost like he expected the strike, and he stops its sting before it reaches him.

His eyes shine dangerously. He grips the whip in his hand. And pulls.

Her weapon falls flat and disintegrates on the floor.

“Was that an attack, Ms. Lightwood?” he asks, danger in his voice.

“No,” she suffers, standing up on her elbows, watching him with half-lidded eyes.

"You know what happens if you threaten a representative of the Clave, don't you?"

"I get punished," she says, softly, coyly, almost relishing the words.

" _Precisely_." 

"Then please...do it. Punish me."

Victor smirks. She can see he is tickled pink by the notion of disciplining Isabelle Lightwood. But he stops himself short. There is something yet more perverse he wants to extract from her.

“Why would I do that? We are finished for this evening. In fact, you may…put your undergarments back on. This is hardly dignified, my dear.”

He loves the way her face flushes in shock and anger and pride. She has been denied, dismissed. It casts a dark shadow over her angelic features. 

“ _No_ ,” she mouths resolutely.

And she splays her legs wider and grips the edge of his desk for all to see. She should be more embarrassed, but she’s past the point of caring. “I need you. Inside me. I need you, Victor.”

She's uttered the words like a death sentence. She's never asked for anyone. It almost hurts, like being despoiled all over. 

And she sees, despite his perfect elegance, the way his shoulders uncoil, the frantic snap of his fingers. It betrays his want. His eyes flash with something ungovernable. _Who_ is he?

But she doesn’t have time to contemplate such matters. He's upon her before she has time to breathe. 

He grips her thighs and lifts her knees up with little to no decorum. There is almost raw anonymity in his actions. And though there is no delicacy or patience in his ravenous movements, there is always grace. He presses a hand to her stomach, keeping her flat, and he kneels in front of her, submissive yet completely in control.

Her legs are dangling against hard wood. She is all around him. Isabelle slides down, lost in the moment. 

The rune glows a bright red as his tongue folds into her swollen cunt. His beard scratches the inside of her thigh.

She shatters. 

He smirks.

“Hold still, Ms. Lightwood. A little goes a long way.”


End file.
